


What Is Asked, and What Is Needed

by KitCat_Italica



Series: What Is Owed, and What Is Given [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: All The Noncon Happened There, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Worship, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Captured By Hell After Armageddon, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Healthy Communication, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Miscommunication, Never Between Aziraphale and Crowley, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape Roleplay, Recently-Established Relationship, Sort Of, Tender Sex, They're Trying Their Best To Deal With This Okay, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Trust, they get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat_Italica/pseuds/KitCat_Italica
Summary: Crowley started picking at the denim on his knees.  “I keep trying to shut all their shit out, and when the smallest thing reminds me of it, it’s like I’m back in that cell again.  So I think…what I need is to convince myself, one hundred percent, that I’m not there anymore.  That it’s only you, not them.”“So what are you suggesting?”“That…I dunno,maybe…we could do a little roleplay.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: What Is Owed, and What Is Given [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942459
Comments: 17
Kudos: 117





	What Is Asked, and What Is Needed

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i only know how to write 2 things. it has to be either the happiest of happ, or the anguish of someone trying to help their sweetheart recover from extreme sexual abuse and rape. there is no middle ground.
> 
> guess which one i wrote this time lol

If someone had told Crowley six years ago that one of the worst parts of being tortured by Heaven and Hell was that he could never be the little spoon while cuddling, he probably wouldn’t have believed them.

He probably would’ve said something like _Wait, what are you on about?_ Followed up by _Who the Heaven are you, anyway?_ and _The door’s that way, get out of my flat._

__

__

And yet, four years of torture and two years of attempted recovery later, here he was, lamenting his cuddling options of all things.

It was a rare event that he woke up before Aziraphale. That probably would’ve been true before he'd been tortured, but especially after the fact. The first few months after being rescued, he hadn’t been able to stay awake for an entire day. Something about ‘his body and mind needing rest to recover,’ or something like that.

But this morning, he woke before his angel. Even more unusual, he woke without being in his angel’s arms.

Instead, his angel was in _his_ arms. 

They hadn’t fallen asleep spooning. They must’ve sleepily rearranged positions during the night. Maybe Aziraphale had rolled over, and Crowley had unconsciously clung after him. 

However it had happened, Crowley was now plastered to Aziraphale’s back, cradling him close.

At first, he’d sighed in contentment, and nuzzled into Aziraphale’s hair. He loved looking after Aziraphale like this, just like Aziraphale loved looking after him. That balance had felt lopsided ever since Aziraphale had rescued Crowley from Hell, so, yeah, it was nice to return the favor.

But that thought sent an itch down Crowley’s spine. 

Not a chill, exactly. Not even a phantom sensation of hands on his back, as sometimes happened. Just...an itch. 

Because Aziraphale couldn’t return this favor to Crowley.

Anything to do with Crowley’s back was off-limits. No standing behind him. No sitting without his back to a wall or a high-backed piece of furniture. Even Aziraphale rubbing his back while cuddling with him sometimes made him squirm.

Aziraphale being the big spoon to Crowley, therefore, was never going to happen.

“Mmm?”

Aziraphale was stirring. One hand found Crowley’s where it lay on his chest. Crowley let him squeeze it.

His angel sighed happily. “What a lovely surprise.”

The itch crawled into Crowley’s skull. A low static drone that sounded like a garbled version of _He can’t ever surprise_ you _like this._

__

__

Crowley disguised his shudder as a lazy morning stretch. Aziraphale must’ve still been half-asleep, as he didn’t comment on it. 

But, the ‘lovely surprise’ comment did give Crowley an out. He kissed Aziraphale’s fluffy hair, murmured, “There’s more where that came from,” and disentangled their limbs to get up from the bed. 

The chime of his miracle that transformed his pyjamas into his usual skinny jeans, shirt, and jacket must’ve alerted Aziraphale. The angel looked over his shoulder, blinking sleep from his eyes. “Where are you going?”

Crowley smiled. “Getting you another surprise. Be right back.” He leaned down to brush a kiss to Aziraphale. Aziraphale lazily returned it, though he wasn’t awake enough to coordinate it properly. God, how Crowley loved him.

“Stay here,” Crowley murmured. With one last affectionate squeeze to Aziraphale’s arm, he loped away to the kitchenette downstairs.

xxx

The surprise full English in bed went over smashingly. Aziraphale was so engrossed in his breakfast that he didn’t comment on Crowley sitting a foot away from him in the bed to watch him eat. Nor did he attempt to initiate further cuddling. “I was thinking of reorganizing my Latin poetry section today,” he said. “If that’s alright?”

“‘Course,” said Crowley. “Plenty for me to do today.”

Aziraphale slid him a sly glance, but otherwise didn’t press him. 

But Crowley had been sincere. Of course, there weren’t any more temptations assigned to him, after they’d firmly hammered out their separation from Heaven and Hell. (If thwarting the Apocalypse hadn’t gotten the message across, murdering the entire Dark Council and all the Archangels after four years of them torturing Crowley seemed to have done the trick.) But there were still plenty of hobbies for Crowley to occupy himself with.

He tended to the few houseplants he’d convinced Aziraphale to buy for the bookshop (both with water and with withering glares). He browsed Twitter to start petty arguments. He hacked into a few MPs’ emails to keep up with his anonymous blackmailing schemes. He watched a few reruns of _Avatar: The Last Airbender._

__

__

What he tried not to do was to label these activities for what they were: _distractions._

__

__

The itching feeling in his back didn’t go away. He kept having to roll his shoulders and adjust his position on the sofa. Irksome, it was.

So what if he couldn’t be the little spoon with Aziraphale? He’d gotten by without any sort of physical affection for over six thousand years. His corporation was currently in a human shape, but that didn’t mean it needed certain kinds of touch. He didn’t need food or water, either.

He knew there were counterarguments to that line of thinking _(it’s not a physical need, dearheart, but an emotional need_ and _all Her creatures need comfort, darling, humans and angels alike)._ But he was doing his best to not get into that debate. Today was not going to be a Bad Day. He would be fine.

But, as he’d had a hand in designing screens to provoke existential anxiety in humans, it started backfiring on him in turn. By the fourth episode of _Avatar,_ he’d had enough of his thoughts churning away in the background. He stood, switched the TV off with a snap of his fingers, and slithered back to the kitchen.

Fortunately, he had a tried-and-true method to settle himself: doing something nice for Aziraphale.

xxx

Like clockwork, the whir of the electric mixer beckoned his angel from the maze of bookshelves. “I thought I smelled something divine back here,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley smirked, not taking his eyes off the gooey brown batter swirling in the bowl. “Divine’s got nothing to do with it.” He met Aziraphale’s playful hip bump with his own as the angel sidled next to him.

Once the batter was ready, Crowley held up one of the whisks from the mixer. “Want a taste?”

“Crowley, it has raw eggs in it!”

“And the sushi you had yesterday had raw fish in it. You’re an angel, you can’t get salmonella.”

Aziraphale gave him a chiding look. But right on cue (Crowley could set his watch to it by now), three seconds later, Aziraphale was opening his mouth to lick the batter off the mixer.

The sight was just as titillating to Crowley as Aziraphale’s pleased hum.

Crowley poured the rest of the batter into the baking pan in between feeding Aziraphale more morsels of the stuff. He’d forgotten to preheat the oven, but when he slid the pan in, the appliance obediently rose to 175 C without being told twice.

“How long does it need to bake?” Aziraphale asked, peering over Crowley’s shoulder at the pre-cooked brownies in the oven window.

Crowley smirked at the angel's impatience. “The recipe says twenty minutes.”

“Ah.” A pause. An expectation.

Crowley had become fluent in those wordless requests from Aziraphale over the last six millennia. “Although, if they know what’s good for them, I’d say they could hurry themselves along. Might be ready in fifteen?”

“They could at that,” said Aziraphale with an enthusiastic little wiggle. He placed a hand affectionately on Crowley’s shoulder.

At the touch, the itch in Crowley’s back exploded into a fifty-thousand volt electric shock.

He lurched forward with a shout. His hands trembled as they grasped onto the stovetop. Sweat broke out along every pore in his twitching back.

Aziraphale had jumped back at the reaction. “I-I’m so sorry,” he stammered, “so sorry, dear, I didn’t—”

Crowley was trying to get breath back into him. The pins-and-needles sensation was spreading up his neck, onto his face. “Not your fault,” he gritted out.

Aziraphale’s hands were twitching toward him, fluttering back and forth between _I want to comfort you_ and _I don’t want to make things worse._ Crowley wasn’t sure what he needed, himself.

Without thinking it through, he pushed off from the stovetop, and staggered into the sitting room, toward the old couch he would collapse into during previous panic attacks. He couldn’t sink down into it fast enough. He buried his face in his hands, letting the cushions dig into his back, grounding him as best they could against the itching of _protect your back, they can’t sneak up on you if you protect your back, they can’t grab you, they can’t hold you down, they CAN’T—_

__

__

“Crowley, I’m so sorry—”

_“Just give me a goddamn MINUTE, Aziraphale!”_

__

__

His face flushed, as he realized his reaction a second too late. 

When Aziraphale replied, his usual bright and bubbly voice was small and stilted. “I’ll make us some tea.” 

Crowley didn't reply. He couldn’t look at Aziraphale.

He could only tell by the sound of hurried footsteps that Aziraphale had retreated.

xxx

If the brownies were hurrying themselves along, the tea must’ve been taking its sweet time to brew. Crowley couldn’t fault it for that. Hot beverages weren’t just Aziraphale’s go-to method of comfort; they were also a convenient excuse to give them both space when they needed it.

By the time Aziraphale returned with two steaming mugs in tow, Crowley had gotten a grip on his breathing. The itching in his back had mostly died down. He still felt unsettled in his skin, but that usually took more time to deal with.

He scooted into a more upright position to take the mug. That also allowed room on the sofa for Aziraphale to sit. Aziraphale took the invitation.

They sipped their tea in silence.

Hot drinks hadn’t been Crowley’s cup of…well, _tea,_ for most of his time on Earth. He’d preferred the sloppiness of alcohol’s effects to the warm fuzziness of cocoa. But since being rescued from Hell, and drinking his first taste of something soothing as opposed to his own blood and bile…it had left an impression on him.

He’d clung to the comfort like a limpet. And Aziraphale had provided, as he always had. 

Aziraphale was the one to break the silence. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I shouldn’t have touched you when I did.”

“You’re allowed to touch my shoulder,” Crowley murmured into his mug. “Didn’t know it would set me off like that. Not your fault.”

Aziraphale looked at him meaningfully. “It’s not yours, either.”

Crowley returned the look. It wasn’t that he’d fully sunk into victim-blaming after his ordeal, but, well…

Considering what his torturers had sneered at him, let alone what they’d goaded him into saying, the acts they’d forced him to beg for in the hopes of sparing himself the most pain…

…while the constant reminders of who was really to blame didn’t always work, they didn’t hurt, either.

Crowley retreated into another sip of tea. Aziraphale followed suit. The silence that followed lulled Crowley into thinking the conversation was over, but he should’ve seen Aziraphale’s next comment coming: “Have you been alright today?”

Crowley sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little off. Didn’t think it was a big thing, until, boom, your hand on my shoulder feels like—”

He stopped himself. Didn’t know why he did. Aziraphale looked at him, confused at the silence.

“—a branding iron,” Crowley muttered weakly. 

_Liar. Liar liar liar. That’s not what it felt like, and you know it._

__

__

But Aziraphale either didn’t notice, or decided not to press him on it. “Would anything else help?”

Crowley shrugged. “Maybe something later. Just need a minute.”

Aziraphale assented with silence. More tea-sipping. More quiet.

But the quiet soon grew more comfortable—it couldn’t stay awkward for long between the two of them. No matter their intentions toward each other in times of stress, they always defaulted to gentleness and care. 

Exemplified by Aziraphale’s next question, hovering a hand over Crowley’s legs: “May I?”

Crowley nodded. As always, Aziraphale’s touch as he caressed Crowley’s shins was so gentle, it could shatter Crowley’s heart in seconds.

Crowley got lost in staring at the hand stroking his legs. His jumble of thoughts was sliding into place. He wasn’t sure what it was, but something was finally making sense. A secret wish was hatching in his chest, after incubating for days. Months, even.

“I’m thinking.” He cleared his throat (and couldn’t tell if it was nervous). “I’ve _been_ thinking. About something we could try.”

Aziraphale glanced up at him.

“In bed.”

Aziraphale’s brow raised. Probably surprised Crowley was thinking about anything remotely sexual at a time like this. But he didn’t question it, beyond a simple, “Oh?”

Crowley glanced down. “Just been thinking about the way you touch me.”

Aziraphale jerked his hand away from Crowley’s leg. Crowley grabbed the hand back. “I meant that it’s a good thing,” he clarified. “It’s…gentle, y’know? S’good.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. His hand relaxed in Crowley’s hold as he smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“And it’s different. Like, different than…what _they_ did.”

“I should hope so.”

Crowley pushed past the beginnings of steel in Aziraphale’s tone. “But that’s my whole point. That difference, it’s what I _need._ Need reminders of it. You see what I’m saying?”

“Of course. I’ll be more careful.”

Crowley gave a labored sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“I’m not explaining it right.”

Aziraphale raised a brow at him. Waiting.

Crowley started picking at the denim on his knees. “I keep trying to shut all their shit out, and when the smallest thing reminds me of it, it’s like I’m back in that cell again. So I think…what I need is to convince myself, one hundred percent, that I’m not there anymore. That it’s only you, not them.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“That…I dunno, _maybe_ …we could do a little roleplay.”

Aziraphale bolted upright. He withdrew his hand from Crowley’s leg as if he’d burned him. _“Out of the question.”_

__

__

“Okay, okay, maybe roleplay wasn’t the right word, that’s not what I meant—”

Aziraphale was turning ashen. “Crowley, if you think I’m—that I would ever consider—doing _anything_ like that to you—”

“ _That’s not what I’m suggesting._ It would still just be gentle, like you’ve always been, in bed and everywhere else. Nothing we haven’t done before.”

Aziraphale still looked wary. “So what would be the difference?”

Crowley set his mug on a side table, and levered himself into sitting up, folding his legs underneath himself. He had to muddle through his thoughts slowly in order to convey them out loud. “When I was in that cell, right? I’d just…lay there, in those chains, in the dark. Waiting for them to come back. I didn’t know when, I didn’t know how much longer I had, I just knew that they _would,_ and when they did, they were going to do whatever they liked with me. And there was nothing I could do about it.”

He was nearly thrown off-track by Aziraphale resting a hand on top of his own. But, the gentleness did ground him from the residual terror lurking in his words.

“I’ve been trying to avoid that. But now, I think, I need to reenact part of it. _Part of it,”_ he emphasized, grabbing onto Aziraphale’s hand as the angel looked about to argue. “I mean the…the _waiting_ part of it. Say I, I go upstairs ahead of you, lie down in the bed, and wait for you to come up after me. And when you do, you can, y’know, do what you like with me.”

Aziraphale winced at the last bit. “That’s the part I’m not comfortable with. How does that make me any different from… _them?"_

__

__

Crowley caught his gaze, making sure he held it steady. “Because you don’t want to hurt me. Them doing what they like is hurting me. You doing what you like is being gentle. Making me feel good with you.”

Aziraphale looked back down at their hands, shaking his head. “That’s not enough.”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue again (though he wasn’t sure what he was arguing with, at this point). But Aziraphale cut him off. “That _cannot_ be the only thing separating me from them. Coercion can still come in the guise of gentleness.”

Crowley’s thoughts snagged on that, along with the hurt in Aziraphale’s eyes. 

If anyone would know about ‘coercion as gentleness’, it would be Heaven’s former field agent on Earth.

“You’re not coercing me,” Crowley said softly. “You never have.”

“And I never would,” said Aziraphale. “So if I were to ‘do what I like with you,’ I would only do so if you had a way out of it.”

“What, you mean like, have me come up with a safeword?”

“If you’d like,” Aziraphale said gently. But his smile sobered as he said, “Or you could just tell me to stop. That would always be enough for me.”

A chill went through Crowley. It wasn’t a bad chill, though. It was a shiver of _You’re safe now_ and _You have control again._

__

__

“So, perhaps,” said Aziraphale, “instead of me ‘doing what I like with you,’ a better phrasing is that I would be… _taking care of you.”_

__

__

Fuck, Crowley was going to cry. Keep it together, dammit. Focus, focus, deep breath, breathe, you idiot…

“Yeah,” he rasped, “that sounds about right.”

The oven timer started beeping in the kitchen.

But Aziraphale didn’t take his eyes off Crowley. His gaze turned unbearably tender. He leaned in, and stroked his knuckles down Crowley’s cheek. “That, I can do.”

xxx

They talked some more about the particulars while they ate their brownies. Most of Crowley’s answers to Aziraphale were, “Whatever you feel like doing.” 

Aziraphale still didn’t look completely comfortable with the idea. 

“It’s not about you having power over me,” Crowley tried to explain. “I wasn’t in control then, but now I don’t have to be. Because it’s up to you now.”

“But I don’t always know what you need!” Aziraphale protested. “I can’t read your thoughts!”

“I’ll tell you if it’s not right. Like you said, I’ll say ‘stop’ if I need to. But I don't think I’ll need to. That’s the whole point.”

“What point is that?”

Crowley made sure Aziraphale caught his gaze. “That I trust you,” he said softly.

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to hold back tears.

“Think of it this way,” Crowley said. “I’ve got a bad script in my head. I’ve been trying to tune it out this whole time. But now, I’m opening it back up so that, with your help, I can rewrite the ending.”

Aziraphale beamed. “You always were a good playwright. You helped William with _Romeo and Juliet,_ yes?”

“Only a little. You were the one who co-authored _Lysistrata.”_

__

__

“That’s hardly fair! Aristophanes took my suggestions completely out of context. I couldn’t bear to show my face in Athens for the next fifty years.”

Crowley didn’t bother trying to keep a straight face. “Don’t worry. With this script, the idea of withholding sex never enters into the equation.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale muttered. 

xxx

The rest of the afternoon was as relaxing as it could be. Crowley still felt jumpy, both from the recent panic attack, and from what they were going to try tonight. But he stuffed it down as best he could.

They’d agreed on doing this at night. Crowley wanted it dark outside, to more closely resemble the conditions of his cell. (He would still leave the bedside lamp on, though; he was aiming for slight nerves, not instant hyperventilating.)

Around nine o’clock, Crowley lifted his head from where he’d been resting it on Aziraphale’s lap. “Right,” he muttered, “I’m heading up.”

Aziraphale looked up warily at him as he rose from the sofa. “When shall I join you?”

Crowley shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Probably the longer I wait, the better. But I don’t want to know. That’s the point.”

Aziraphale nodded. Cautious. “So…I’ll see you upstairs?”

Crowley nodded back. He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, before beating a hasty retreat up the stairs. His heart thudded louder with every step.

xxx

The moment Crowley shut the bedroom door behind him, the silence took hold.

His eyes flitted around the room. The armchair, the dresser, the small mirror. The ivy on the windowsill (his). The bookshelves of old favorites (Aziraphale’s). The glow of the single lamp, and the furniture’s shadows cast from it.

He shivered as his gaze settled on the bed.

That was the deal. He would lay there, until Aziraphale came upstairs to…

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it.

But as Crowley shuffled over to the bed, he landed on the currently more pressing question: what to wear?

He could stay dressed as he was. The skinny jeans might be uncomfortable after a while, though. He could change into pyjamas, for more comfort?

Or…for more authenticity…

His spine’s shudder of revulsion almost threw him off-balance. He was already so unsettled, so vulnerable. Being naked for this would just make tonight worse.

(But what if Aziraphale wanted him to take his clothes off?)

(Would he be expecting it when he came in here?)

(If he saw Crowley still dressed, would he shut the door behind him, and ask him to take them off?)

(Would he stare as Crowley stripped in front of him, and circle around him to appraise his body, copping a feel or two as he went—)

 _(No, of course not, of course not, this was_ Aziraphale. _Not them.)_

__

__

Crowley peeled off his jacket, flinging it over the armchair in the corner. He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes and socks. He left everything else on. 

For the first time in a while, he felt the urge to summon his sunglasses. He resisted it. Instead, he settled on closing his eyes, and taking an even breath in and out.

He laid down on the bed. Curled up on his side. And waited.

His eyes catalogued everything in the room again. Dresser. Chair. Nightstand. Lamp. (See, you have light now.) Ivy. (Another life here besides you.) Bookshelves. (He’s here, it’s okay.) Mirror. (Don’t look at yourself.) Door. (You can see the door now, it’s fine, don’t stare at it since you’ll just freak yourself out, but you’ll see when anyone comes in, they won’t sneak up on you—)

He stroked a hand down the navy blue duvet he was lying on. Egyptian cotton with an absurdly high thread count. Like silk under his hand. It was soft. So _soft._

__

__

Two years ago, this was the first soft place he’d laid down on in ages. After Aziraphale had saved him, and helped him stagger out of Hell, he’d brought him here. He’d carried him upstairs, and laid him down on this soft bed.

He’d healed Crowley’s injuries here. He’d been so careful and kind as he’d peeled off the clothes he’d conjured for him, easing them from where his blood had already plastered them to his skin. He’d vanished every gash, every brand, every bruise. He’d mended every broken bone that hadn’t been set properly as it tried to heal for the last four years.

He’d healed his intimate injuries, too. And then his _wings…_

__

__

(Dear God, Crowley hoped he wouldn’t ask to see his wings tonight. He’d rather strip naked and bend over for him, rather than do that.)

This bed was where he’d slept for years now. Where Aziraphale had held him through countless panic attacks, rocking him in his arms after horrific nightmares. Even if he was unsure about what to do to help, he would rub Crowley's back, stroke his hair, kiss his forehead, whisper that everything would be alright, that he was safe.

This was where they would cuddle during lazy afternoons, speaking softly about nothing, giggling at stupid jokes. Where Crowley would clasp Aziraphale’s head close to his chest at night, lulling him to sleep with his heartbeat.

This was where they’d first made love. Where Aziraphale had first wrapped a hand around him under the blankets. Where they would move together, kissing and sighing and whispering encouragement, of how good it felt to share this with each other. Where Aziraphale would ask permission before doing anything, checking in if he was okay, keeping him as covered as he needed. Where Crowley’s consent and comfort had _always_ mattered.

Crowley nuzzled his cheek against the duvet. He was safe in this bed. Here, he’d been nothing but loved.

And yet.

As he waited here, alone in this room, dark but for the glow of the bedside lamp, he still felt the pull of the opposite. The memories in which he hadn’t been safe. When he’d been nothing but a pincushion for his captors, to stick him with their knives and their whips and their…

He curled in. Wrapped his arms around himself. Drew his knees in closer.

He’d lied to Aziraphale earlier today. His angel’s hand on his shoulder hadn’t felt like a branding iron.

It had felt like a hand. A hand bracing against his shoulder, for better leverage.

To fuck him.

His breath shuddered in and out of him. He stared hard at the corner of the pillowcase near his nose.

_Why did this bother him so much?_

__

__

Yes, he had a body. It wasn’t his true form, though. His life wasn’t tied to it the way humans were. He wasn’t trapped in the sexual mores of a single century or culture, with all their hangups about virginity and gender roles and self-worth.

So why the Heaven did the rapes tear at his soul more than his other injuries?

He huffed a sigh at himself. He knew _exactly_ why.

__

__

It was his own blessed fault.

He’d never felt desire for anyone except Aziraphale. That made the desire special. Over the centuries, he’d allowed the humans’ ideas of romance to attach to his want, until it was commonplace for him to spend lonely nights wanking over fantasies of Aziraphale making love to him, of him and his angel treasuring each other in such a human way.

He’d put the concept of sex on a pedastal in his mind. He’d tied it to his love for Aziraphale.

Once Heaven and Hell had figured that out, they’d twisted it into a weapon against his body and heart, making a mockery of such an intimate act. They’d taken his virginity by force.

Ever since, some part of Crowley would always associate sex with violence and humiliation.

He rubbed a hand over his face. What was he _doing,_ asking Aziraphale to assume such dominance over his body? He said he would be ‘taking care of Crowley’, but what would that entail? He could theoretically do anything under that label. He _could_ ask Crowley to strip. He could rip his clothes off himself. He could manhandle him into any position he liked, no matter how much fear burned hot in Crowley’s gut. He could get him on his elbows and knees, ass in the air as he was roughly fucked, whispering that _this is for your own good, little serpent, you need to get used to crawling on your belly again—_

__

__

He jolted at the soft knock at the door. His shoulders hunched in around himself, as if that would protect him.

“Crowley?”

He froze.

“May I come in?”

His mouth stung of something metallic. He wasn’t sure if it was his own bile, or if he’d bitten his lip so hard it was bleeding. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heel of a hand against his mouth. It muffled the whimper he couldn’t keep in his throat.

He was shaking. God, he was shaking so hard. It hurt, to keep his muscles this tense, but he couldn’t _stop._

__

__

“...Crowley?”

The voice was soft. Concerned. And still muffled by the door.

Aziraphale wasn’t coming in yet.

A minute ticked by. Crowley just lay there, mouth pressed to his hand, eyes squeezed shut, trying to rein in his shaking. He didn’t whimper again, at least.

Another minute. He opened his eyes, and realized that he was still alone. Aziraphale still hadn’t come in.

That wasn’t the deal, though. Aziraphale was supposed to come in, just like his torturers had. He wasn’t supposed to give warning. Instead, he’d asked—

Oh, shit. He’d asked permission to come in, and Crowley had just been lying here, without answering. The angel was probably worried.

Crowley puffed out a long, slow breath. He let out a full-body shudder, trying to dispel the tension from the shaking. Somehow, he mustered an even enough voice to croak out, “Yeah, come on—come on in.”

It felt weird to say, even as he said it. He'd never _given permission_ to enter. Heaven, this was Aziraphale’s room, too! In his own bookshop!

But when Aziraphale did enter the room as he was bid, his cautious demeanor made him seem more like a guest than a host.

Crowley locked eyes with him. Even with his slit pupils, he probably wouldn’t have fooled anyone into thinking he was aiming a predator’s gaze at Aziraphale. He was lying small and vulnerable on the bed, staring wide-eyed at where Aziraphale stood—next to the only escape from the room. He was cornered prey here, and they both knew it.

But rather than acting like a predator himself, Aziraphale drew himself inward, too. His shoulders rolled forward, his hands worried at the frayed edges of his waistcoat. His mouth drew into a fidgeting, thin line.

Crowley didn’t understand why. He was still on such a hair-trigger alert, he couldn’t decipher why his angel hadn’t approached him yet.

“May I, um…” Aziraphale stammered, “…may I sit down?”

The request snapped Crowley out of his fear for a second. His self-preservation had always been trumped by the impulse to attend to his angel. But, not trusting himself to speak without wavering, he just jerked a nod.

Aziraphale smiled in relief. Still, he was cautious as he crossed the room, and gingerly perched on the edge of the bed. Crowley’s eyes stayed locked on his every move.

Aziraphale flashed him another smile. It flickered, nervous as it was. But the warmth in his eyes didn’t fade. He seemed to arrive at a decision, and reached out. Crowley tensed.

But Aziraphale didn’t move to touch Crowley. Instead, he rested his hand palm-up beside him. 

Crowley stared at it. The invitation was obvious. What he didn’t understand was _why_ it was an invitation. Why hadn’t Aziraphale just taken his hand, if he wanted to hold it? Heaven, why wasn’t he touching him as he pleased right now? Why had he asked permission to sit down, or to enter the room, and had waited until Crowley gave his verbal consent to— 

_Oh._

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Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale. He looked unsure, almost shy. But the familiar kindness in his eyes shone through it all.

Crowley placed his hand in Aziraphale’s. The moment Aziraphale loosely held his hand, brushing a thumb over the back of his knuckles, some of the tension bled out of Crowley’s spine.

_He’s not going to do anything without asking._

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“Crowley?”

Crowley glanced back up, through the uncertainty they shared, to the kind, loving eyes at the center of it all.

“May I touch your face?”

Crowley had to fight down a sudden rush of tears. 

He’d told Aziraphale, years ago, how he’d clung to his last shreds of sanity while being tortured. How, in between sessions, when he lay broken and bleeding on the floor of that cell, he’d curl up tight, close his eyes, and imagine Aziraphale. Imagine him there, doing things they’d never shared before in real life. He’d imagine Aziraphale telling him he would be alright, whispering soft endearments, stroking his hair…

_And caressing his face._

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He nodded his permission. Aziraphale beamed, let go of Crowley’s hand, and carefully leaned over him.

The moment that warm hand cupped his right cheek, Crowley nuzzled into it without thinking. He didn’t fight down his whimper this time.

Aziraphale had once brought up the word ‘touch-starved’ about his reactions. Of course, neither of them knew what literal starvation felt like. But if eating after a long fast felt anything like the unbearable, tingling burn in Crowley’s skin at every point of contact, how his mind went blank with joy the moment he was touched, how he would fixate on the lingering sensation long after, how he forgot how to breathe the first time Aziraphale gave him a full-body hug, how he wanted to shiver into Aziraphale’s gentle hands every time they were in the same room…

It seemed an apt description. 

He’d gone six thousand and twenty-three years without any meaningful touch. He’d been brutalized for four years after that. Now, for just over two years, he’d been spoiled with physical affection, and all he craved was _more._

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Aziraphale’s thumb stroked his cheekbone. Crowley quickly grew short of breath. He kept trying to angle his face closer. He’d seen dogs chase after their owner’s hands while being pet on the head, which always interrupted the flow of affection. He understood the impulse now.

It was a miracle he didn’t cry when Aziraphale’s other hand cupped his left cheek. He leaned into that one now. Aziraphale kept his hand gentle, letting Crowley rest his face against it. His other hand moved to stroke his forehead, up through his hair, fingertips caressing his scalp.

Crowley opened his glistening eyes. Aziraphale was right there above him, flashing him a grateful smile. It didn’t seem smug. Relieved, more like.

He leaned in closer. Crowley’s eyes fell shut again, as Aziraphale pressed his lips to his forehead. The kiss was soft, and it lingered.

Aziraphale had been kissing Crowley’s forehead ever since he’d rescued him. They didn't talk about their romantic feelings until a few months after that, and at the time, the gesture could still have been interpreted as platonic. Even now, they still liked to convey the message of _I care so much about you_ in that way.

But these days, they didn’t limit themselves to forehead kisses. Tonight was no exception. Aziraphale laid kisses, gossamer-soft, to the delicate skin of each of Crowley’s closed eyelids. One on each cheekbone. One on the bridge of his nose.

He hovered his lips over Crowley’s next. Crowley could feel the heat of his breath. He didn’t seal the deal, though. 

_He was asking permission again._

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Crowley gave it. He closed the distance between their mouths. The kiss was slow, chaste, a few presses of chapped lips. It still spoke volumes more than what they could have ever put into words.

When they gently broke apart, Crowley opened his eyes. Aziraphale was smiling down at him. One hand was still on his cheek, stroking soothingly down his jaw. For a moment, Crowley forgot what he’d asked Aziraphale to do tonight, and just let himself float in the reassurance and love.

“May I see one of your hands?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s brow creased. What the Heaven?

Still, he didn’t see any reason not to, so he propped his right forearm up by the elbow, to wave his hand by their heads like a kid in a classroom. Aziraphale breathed a laugh at the display.

He moved to sit up more—making Crowley mourn the loss of their closeness, not to mention the hands on his face. But Aziraphale somewhat made up for it when he held Crowley’s hand loosely in his own.

He made Crowley’s heart fucking _melt_ when he pressed a kiss to his fingernails. Then the first knuckles. Then the second. All the way to the webbing between his fingers.

A twinge of fear wormed its way through Crowley, as the contact triggered sense-memories. 

Demons ripping his fingernails out. 

Him scraping his nails across the floor as he was dragged toward the rack. 

That one angel stomping on his hand after raping him, breaking all the delicate bones in one go.

And here this angel was, kissing the back of his hand, all the way to the knob of bone on the side of his wrist. Taking his time, treasuring every wrinkle and vein, softness and calluses alike. Adoring the hand that had wrought a thousand evil deeds.

Aziraphale flipped his hand over, tracing his life and heart lines with his lips. When he made it to the inside of his wrist, kissing the vulnerable veins there, Crowley returned the previous favor, and cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hand. Aziraphale nuzzled into it with a grin. His glance down at Crowley could’ve lit up the room clear as daylight, it was so bright.

Crowley didn’t smile back. He could only stare.

Aziraphale faltered. “May I…” He glanced to the side. “May I have your other hand?”

Crowley gave it to him. Only for Aziraphale to bestow the exact same treatment to his left hand. 

The whole time, Crowley could only watch, feel the affection, and try to ignore the gnawing dread in his gut.

Aziraphale was going off-script. It was a welcome change on the surface, but deep down, it was making Crowley squirm with anticipation. This was physical, yes. But it wasn’t sex, not yet. Eventually, Aziraphale was going to turn up the heat. He was going to start touching Crowley intimately, maneuvering him as he pleased. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Aziraphale. The whole point of this was that he _did._

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But his stomach still twisted in knots as he waited it out.

“Crowley?”

He startled. Aziraphale sounded like he’d been repeating his name a few times. He looked concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley. He didn’t know how he kept his voice from wavering. “Right as rain, me.”

Aziraphale still looked uncertain, but he took the answer as is. “I was going to ask, and this may sound silly, or strange, but…might I do the same with your feet?”

Crowley’s anxiety stopped in its tracks. “What?”

“It’s just, well, you took your shoes and socks off, and I only wondered…”

“They’ll be all sweaty.”

“I don’t mind.”

Crowley shut himself up. Tonight was about Aziraphale doing what he liked—if he wanted to kiss Crowley’s feet, so be it. (Although, Crowley was curious about it himself.) “Yeah, alright.”

Aziraphale smiled, and scooted down the bed. Crowley squashed the impulse to chase after him.

Aziraphale cradling his right foot in his lap, and leaning down to kiss the arch, took his breath away. He watched for a while, but as Aziraphale continued decorating his feet with gentle kisses, Crowley found himself leaning his head back, closing his eyes…and just enjoying it.

The irony of a holy being attending to a sinner’s feet wasn’t lost on him. But when Aziraphale started massaging his feet, gliding his hands over the muscles and fascia, fuck if that didn’t feel good. No, not just good; bloody _fantastic._

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Aziraphale’s hand starting on the bottom of his calf muscle drew him out of the bliss.

He held his breath. Waiting for the inevitable. The touch would go higher, up his calves, inside his thighs, groping him between his legs to get things started… 

Aziraphale’s hand retreated. He went back to his foot, rubbing his arch.

Crowley looked down. Aziraphale was kissing the top of his foot, right above his toes. He was looking at the foot like it was the most precious thing in the world to him. 

When Aziraphale looked up at him, still with that tender expression aimed directly at him, something buried in Crowley’s heart squirmed.

The tenderness faltered. The squirming must’ve shown on the surface. Aziraphale put down the foot, and stretched over to Crowley's side, lying down next to him the way he so often did.

“Hello,” Aziraphale said kindly.

Crowley swallowed. “Hey.”

Aziraphale raised a hand, gently smoothing through Crowley’s hair. Crowley’s breath shuddered out of him. The touch was as loving as always, but he had no idea what was coming next.

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, before pausing, biting his lip. Crowley could feel his own mouth go dry with anticipation. “Might I feel your chest next?”

Crowley went cold.

But shit, shit, shit, Aziraphale must have seen it in his face. “Only if you’d like, of course, I…oh, dear—”

“Yeah,” Crowley cut him off. “Yeah, sure.” 

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him. “Are you…are you certain?”

Crowley nodded. Seeing as Aziraphale still wasn’t moving, he reached to his own shirt buttons.

They gave him trouble. The second button wasn’t cooperating. But dammit, this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go! Aziraphale was supposed to be doing what he liked, and Crowley was supposed to take it, that was how this worked, he would make Aziraphale happy, and rewrite this fucking script in his head— 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, “just take a moment, we don’t have to—”

“S’fine,” he rasped. He could hardly get the words out, his throat was so tight. Like there was some lump in it. He tried to loosen his jaw, but it just started shaking, so he clenched it harder. He could do this. It was fine. He’d said he needed this, and he did, so he would _get through this—_

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Warm hands were covering his own. “Darling, you’re trembling.”

Crowley squeezed his eyes against the sudden sting. His jaw was trembling as bad as his hands.

“Let’s stop,” Aziraphale whispered. “Hush, it’s alright, you’re right here with me…”

Crowley let himself be guided toward Aziraphale, arms around him, face buried in the angel's neck. The burning in the pit of his stomach roiled up his chest, and out with a pitiful sound from his throat.

His face seized up where it was squished in Aziraphale’s neck. The warm softness muffled his breathy little cries. 

Aziraphale’s gentle hands were rubbing his back. “Shhh, Crowley, you’re alright, we’ve stopped, it’s alright…” 

He clawed into Aziraphale’s shoulders, as white-hot terror wracked his body. Everything pent-up from this morning’s itch, to the panic attack, to the fearful waiting alone in a quiet room, to the memories behind it all of being beaten and flayed open and raped and mocked and _brutalized_ all seized control of him at once. 

At least he didn’t openly weep this time. Or scream. Or hyperventilate. Muffled as he was, it was likely no one outside the door would’ve been able to hear him. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, probably felt every wrestled-down sob jackhammering through Crowley's back. And after over six thousand years of knowing Crowley, he must know how much he hated to show feelings like this to anyone, how important his cool, collected persona was to him.

But the more Crowley trembled in this angel’s arms, the more he remembered why he didn’t have to hide this from Aziraphale. This wasn’t just any angel. It wasn’t another demon. It wasn’t the beings who had abused him.

This was the safe harbor he’d known for thousands of years.

Eventually his cries died down. His eyes still burned from it, his face sore from how much he’d strained it while hidden in Aziraphale’s neck. Now he just felt empty.

But Aziraphale filled in that ache, as he always did. He stroked his back in silence, letting him cuddle against his warmth as close as he needed. Gently guiding him back to shore.

The lips pressed to Crowley’s forehead drew him out of the trance. He sniffed loudly. “Didn’t think it’d be this bad.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “I’m so sorry.”

Crowley shrugged. “No helping it. S’my own fault.” His throat threatened to close up again, but he rasped through it, “It was the waiting. While I was up here alone… _everything_ just came back.”

Aziraphale held him tighter. Crowley clung to him just as hard. It was the only lifeline he had at this point.

“I really thought I could beat this.” He was babbling now, like he did when he was losing control to his emotions. “I’d change this all up and it would stop _bothering_ me, and I—for fuck’s sake, I still can’t sleep without a fucking _light on—”_

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His breath hitched, as the memory of total darkness, and a cold, consecrated slab reverberated in his mind. And the hands, the hands he couldn’t see coming, the hands tearing into him, _groping him—_

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He squeezed his legs together. Squeezed everything down there that he could. It didn’t dislodge the phantom sensations. He buried his face further into Aziraphale’s neck, trying to cover the blushing heat. 

Yes, he’d been in Aziraphale’s arms like this before, while having physical flashbacks of angels and demons raping him. It never became any less humiliating.

Not that Aziraphale had ever judged him for these reactions. Nor did he now. He was still cradling him, one hand on the back of his head, reassuring him that it was okay to hide his face. 

He’d never forced Crowley into further vulnerability. Tonight, Crowley had done that to himself.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley. I hope you can forgive me.”

Crowley sniffed again. “What?”

“I couldn’t…I tried to do as you asked, but…oh, I went against all my instincts, and—”

Crowley lifted his head. “What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale looked as unsteady as his voice had sounded. He was worrying his bottom lip, his eyes brimming with guilt. “I was trying to do what you asked,” he said meekly, “but, oh, Crowley, I could _see_ how on edge you were, and I wanted to stop everything and just hold you, but you wanted me to take charge and take care of you in a different way, so I—”

Crowley clutched onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. Amazing, that he could still try to offer comfort in his current state. But Aziraphale always had a way of plumbing the depths of his shriveled black heart.

But seeing Aziraphale nearly falling to pieces beside him, it was dawning on Crowley just how horrible of a sin he had committed.

His request for tonight hadn’t just cost him his own comfort. It had cost _Aziraphale’s_ comfort, too.

That was unforgivable.

“S-s-sssorry,” he stammered. “Shouldn’t’ve…shouldn’t’ve asked you to—”

“Oh, don’t you dare blame yourself,” Aziraphale interrupted him. “You trusted me with this, and I couldn’t—”

“I asked you to do something I couldn’t handle. How is that anyone else’s fault?”

“Your reactions to these things are not your fault!”

“Then whose are they?”

Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut. So did Crowley’s. They stared at each other, the silence between them crushing all the air out of the room.

Even two years later, it was still frightening to say the _H_ words out loud.

Aziraphale was the one to look away first. His gaze went down to the pillows they rested on. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you need.”

The small, mumbled words skewered Crowley right through to his core. Aziraphale might as well have said _You go too fast for me_ all over again.

Because what he was really saying was the same thing Aziraphale always worried about: _I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough._

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“Angel.”

Aziraphale met his eyes again.

“You _are_ what I need.”

As Aziraphale’s sweet smile trembled onto his face again, he confirmed what Crowley had just told him. This angel’s strength didn’t lie in his power. It lay in his _kindness._

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Crowley scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Y’know, you’re always giving me the opposite of what they did. They beat me up, you heal me. They laugh at me, you make _me_ laugh. Even when I tell you to have your way with me, you still can’t help but _ask_ me first.”

Aziraphale cradled his face again, still smiling gently. “And I always will. Ask first, that is. In such matters.”

Crowley flitted his eyes around Aziraphale’s. He couldn’t look away. The warmth and love was cradling him just as surely as the hand on his face. 

The cocoon of safety they’d built together had been tested. But it was coming back now, even stronger than before.

The tension from earlier finally started to leave Crowley. Instead of holding tight to Aziraphale, he just rested his weight comfortably against him. No more clinging; now they were truly _cuddling._

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“Sorry I talked you into this,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be,” said Aziraphale. “You thought it would help. Rewriting the script, as you said.”

“Still, reenacting my trauma probably isn’t the best way to go about it. That’s more just…workshopping it? Doing a live reading? I dunno, weird metaphor. Anyway. Point is, we already do plenty of things to rewrite it.”

“Such as?”

Crowley shrugged. He glanced around the room. “All this. The comfort.”

There was Aziraphale’s soft smile again. Crowley knew then that they were creating the same How-We-Rewrite-What-Our-Bosses-Did-To-Us list in their heads.

The comfort. The gentleness. The way they listened to each other. The implicit trust in everything they did. How Crowley’s panic attacks were met with soothing. How Aziraphale’s fears of inadequacy were met with reassurance.

They hadn’t just been rewriting Heaven’s and Hell’s stories about them for the last two years. They’d been doing this for over six thousand.

“Are you saying you just needed a good cuddle?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley scoffed. “I mean, it’s working out so far.” Aziraphale laughed with him, and gently kissed his forehead. 

They lapsed into silence. It might’ve unnerved Crowley, but this wasn’t the silent dread of earlier, when he’d been waiting for Aziraphale to come upstairs. This was the easygoing quiet of cuddling in bed with his best friend and love of his life. His hindbrain seemed to recognize the difference.

In retrospect, the affection Aziraphale had shown him tonight—kissing his face, his hands and feet—hadn’t been _bad._ He’d be up for revisiting it again in the future. It had been the uncertainty about what was coming next that had scared him.

Now, it was different. They were on the same page with their expectations—namely, that there weren’t any. He knew without any doubt that he and Aziraphale could spend the rest of the night cuddling like this, without any further intimacies. That had been the status quo, until the last several months. Even a few nights ago, they’d been trading heated kisses here, but Crowley hadn’t been feeling up to anything further. He had asked, and Aziraphale had said, _Of course it’s alright._ And that had been that.

But, well, his cardinal sin had always been curiosity.

“What were you going to do with my chest?”

Aziraphale lifted his head, seemingly surprised at the question. “I wasn’t going to take your shirt off. Just the first few buttons. And then, cherish you there as I did your hands and feet.”

“With your mouth?”

“And my hands. And perhaps…I could do the same with your neck, too? But only if you wanted. Rather, _all_ of it would be if you wanted, of course.”

Crowley nodded slowly through Aziraphale’s flustered assurances. That didn’t seem bad at all. He liked Aziraphale touching him. And if the anxiety about what came next was taken out of the equation… 

He cocked a brow at Aziraphale. “You can, if you’d like.”

Aziraphale looked stunned. “Crowley, I hope you know we don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I’ve got that down now.”

“It’s just…it's so soon after we stopped…”

The love in Aziraphale’s concern sent a pleasant tingle down Crowley’s spine. Aziraphale always tried to be careful with him right after a panic attack. They hadn’t even kissed until almost a year after he’d rescued Crowley from Hell.

Crowley made sure to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “I’m okay now. Really. And this time, I swear on whatever passes for honor in a demon, I will actually tell you to stop if I need to.”

Aziraphale beamed. Still, he took a second to mull it over, as if trying to appear more chivalrous, before he asked, “May I?”

Crowley gestured to his own chest with a sweeping hand. Aziraphale rolled his eyes at him, before raising himself on one elbow, and reaching to the third button of Crowley’s shirt.

Crowley let out a quiet breath as he realized what Aziraphale had done. He’d started in the middle of his shirt, to work his way _up._ He was silently letting Crowley know that _this is as far as I’ll go._ No worrying about how much he might unbutton his shirt.

Crowley’s hands had trembled as he’d tried to work the buttons earlier. Aziraphale’s held steady. When he was finished, he smoothed the shirt out to the sides, exposing a triangle of bare chest from Crowley’s neck to just below his nipples.

His hands brushed said nipples along the way. Crowley hitched in a breath. 

“Alright?” Aziraphale asked.

_He’s asking. He cares. He loves you._

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Crowley nodded with a small grin.

Aziraphale grinned back, before returning his focus to the newly-bared skin. He brushed a thumb at the bottom, where Crowley’s chest hair grew thicker. He traced up his sternum, all the way to the hollow at the base of his throat, before making his way back down.

“You are so beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley's soft smile widened. “Have you ever looked in a mirror?”

Aziraphale breathed a laugh. They met each other’s eyes, quietly adoring what they saw. 

“Ready?”

“Mm-hm.”

With that, Aziraphale leaned down, and began kissing the bottom of Crowley’s breastbone. 

Crowley heaved a big breath in. He could feel how his chest rose up against Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale nuzzled against his chest hair, and kept going. His lips were so soft, and so _gentle._

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Up he went. Lingering at every inch, adoring the exposed skin with his mouth. His hands stayed ahead of him, his lips following his fingers a second later. Every touch sent sparks through Crowley’s body. 

On the surface, it was no different to how Aziraphale had treated Crowley’s hands and feet. But for Crowley, the experience couldn’t be more different. This wasn’t Aziraphale potentially taking unknown liberties. This was Aziraphale doing exactly what they’d agreed upon.

It was _wonderful._

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Crowley leaned his head back with a sigh. He stopped thinking about the future, with its potential worries. He stopped thinking about the past, and all that he’d suffered. Instead, he settled into the sensations of the present, with the sheer tenderness Aziraphale was offering him.

When Aziraphale made it to his collarbones, Crowley tangled his fingers in Aziraphale’s soft curls. He wasn’t demanding. Just encouraging.

He could feel Aziraphale’s smile against his skin. “And your neck?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Crowley whispered back. He tilted his head further back for better access.

Exposing his neck sometimes bothered him. He wasn’t sure why. With his back, it made sense, as his torturers had often been behind him when they’d hurt him—and always when they’d fucked him. But they hadn’t ever paid special attention to his neck. Sure, they’d choked him a few times, and punched him in the throat once or twice. Nothing too horrible, though.

Maybe it was because the neck was such an intimate body part. It was a vulnerable spot for a human corporation.

Crowley’s breath caught when Aziraphale kissed the base of his throat, just under his Adam’s apple. The second kiss sent goosebumps down his arms. At the third kiss, he couldn’t help his small moan. 

Right. That was another thing about Crowley’s neck: it was quite the sensitive erogenous zone.

Aziraphale kept pressing soft kisses there. Crowley tilted his head as far back as it could go. He could feel his pulse pounding against his angel’s lips, rhythmically announcing the vulnerability of the position.

Never once did he feel the need to hide his neck. He was perfectly safe.

Aziraphale’s breath tickled against his neck, startling a small cry out of Crowley. “Alright?” Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley nodded. “Keep going.”

The next thing he knew, Aziraphale’s thumbs were on either side of his neck, stroking above his pulse points. Crowley grinned at the delight thrumming through his body.

Aziraphale was making him feel _so good._

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His angel kissed the bottom of his chin. From there, he worked his way down, slow as anything. His nose traced Crowley’s jaw, making the _scritch-scratch_ whisper of whenever he rubbed against the beginnings of Crowley’s stubble. Crowley shuddered pleasantly at the sensation.

Finally, Aziraphale arrived at his destination. His lips pressed the most tender kiss to Crowley’s Adam’s apple. His thumbs stayed on either side of it, where Crowley’s pulse was pounding into a frenzy under the skin. Crowley swallowed, only to feel Aziraphale’s lips chase after the bobbing of his throat.

Their breaths were becoming more ragged, even with how quiet they still were. Crowley could’ve melted into Aziraphale’s body, curling up into the angelic heart clearly on offer. He arched his back and hips up before he realized what he was doing.

“I’m so hard,” he whispered. The words left him as if on reflex. 

But a second later, he realized how true it was. He hadn’t noticed his body responding, but now, he couldn’t ignore how he was straining in his jeans. His hips stuttered again.

“Would you like me to take care of it?” Aziraphale whispered against his throat.

Crowley nodded frantically. God, he wanted this. He hadn’t thought he would want any sort of sexual contact tonight, but _fuck,_ he wanted it now.

Aziraphale raised his head from Crowley’s throat. Crowley would’ve been disappointed, but Aziraphale made up for it by hovering over his face instead, looking him in the eye with a soft smile. Crowley smiled back. His angel’s face was his favorite sight in the world.

He melted when Aziraphale kissed him gently. Even when they broke away with a small _smack,_ Crowley chased after him for another quick press. They laughed as they nuzzled together.

They each looked down, as Aziraphale moved a hand down Crowley’s body. From his throat, to his chest, his stomach, his hips…

They breathed together as Aziraphale slowly worked at Crowley’s belt, button, and fly. Crowley was transfixed. He could only watch.

Then Aziraphale was spreading the flaps of his undone jeans apart, untucking his shirt out of the way, pulling down his underwear, letting him spring free into the room… 

Crowley choked out a moan as he watched Aziraphale’s hand wrap around the length of him.

Handjobs were their go-to method of lovemaking. Crowley didn’t want to go anywhere near penetration in either role, and though they’d recently branched out into oral sex (and the one memorable time Aziraphale had eaten him out until he’d started sobbing in ecstacy), they still defaulted to this most basic of sex acts.

But in their circumstances, it wasn’t about how wild they could get with the acts themselves. It was about how tender they were with each other during the act.

Every time— _every single fucking time_ Aziraphale wrapped a hand around him like this—it still felt like a miracle to Crowley. Take all his touch-starvation, craving for affection, and yearning for emotional safety and vulnerability over the years. Add in four years of continual rapes and emotional violence. Give him this soft place to land with the love of his life, and…well, how else was he supposed to react, but to nearly weep with joy as he was lovingly cupped in his angel’s hand?

He lay there, mesmerized as Aziraphale started pumping him. He watched himself— _felt himself_ —slide in and out of Aziraphale’s gentle grip, the head appearing and disappearing from his loose fist. When Aziraphale miracled some lube onto his palm, it started making lewd squelching noises as he jerked him. It looked so mundane, so very human.

Crowley felt a surge of emotion expand in his chest, crushing against his ribs, forcing his heart to beat faster, his breath to shudder out of him in a rush. The air was charged around them with the sheer intimacy of what they were doing. It cradled Crowley just as much as Aziraphale’s hand around him.

Aziraphale's low grunt above him brought his thoughts to the angel's state. “You want any?” he rasped out.

Aziraphale was biting his lip. He nodded. “If you’re alright with it.”

Crowley chuckled. “Plenty alright. Might need help, though. Hard to focus with your hand on my cock.” 

His vulgarity startled a laugh out of Aziraphale, even as he _tsked_ at it. But he obeyed, letting go of Crowley so they could both open Aziraphale’s trousers like fumbling teenagers.

It was worth it, though, when Crowley got to see him peeking out from between his shirttails. There was something thrilling about seeing his prim and proper angel like this, dressed neck-to-ankles except for his erection. 

Earlier, Crowley’s trauma-fueled imagination had fed him nightmarish scenarios about this, where Aziraphale would hurt him in this way. Now, with the anxiety dissipated, he knew better. Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.

That knowledge gave a different context to how Crowley locked eyes with Aziraphale now. Wide and vulnerable, yes, but trusting. Laying back underneath him. Offering all of himself to Aziraphale’s desires.

In answer, Aziraphale leaned back over him, braced on one elbow, and softly kissed him. Crowley met him kiss for kiss.

He keened when Aziraphale wrapped a hand around them both, squeezing them together as he stroked them at the same time.

Though he was lying down, Crowley could feel his own knees shaking in pleasure. He spread his legs wider to let Aziraphale between them. He clutched onto Aziraphale’s shoulders, feeling the shift of muscles underneath the waistcoat as Aziraphale rubbed them both.

He jerked his hips up into Aziraphale’s grip, crying out at the sharp pleasure as he did. “That’s it, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered against his lips, “take what you need… _oh…”_

__

__

Crowley wrapped a hand around them, too. His fingers entwined with Aziraphale’s, creating a loose sheath they could slide into. They worked each other together, rubbed against each other, met each other’s hips in shallow, jerking thrusts.

The room was quiet around them. All that broke it was the slick sounds of their hands, their ragged breaths and occasional little moans. They weren’t usually loud about this, though. Even in this haven in the bookshop, this was something private. It was too precious to announce with any amount of noise.

They were clutching each other too close for proper kissing now. Their shared breath mingled between them, hot and humid against Crowley’s face. Aziraphale’s position above him gave him better leverage for his thrusts, making the bedframe start to squeak. Crowley felt heat coil in the base of his spine.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley whimpered, and fucked up into their hands with short, stuttering little jolts, trying to eke out every last ounce of pleasure before— 

His guttural moan took him by surprise as he came _hard._ He heaved through it as he spent onto their shirts, crying out against Aziraphale’s mouth as he rode it out. Aziraphale stroked him through it, making him whimper as they squeezed out the last drops.

He was still whimpering, dazed with the high, as Aziraphale came next with a strangled shout. Crowley was too spent to do much. He lay there limply, breathing hard, letting Aziraphale come all over his stomach as he quivered and moaned above him.

Aziraphale collapsed on top of him. They lay front-to-front, their bare skin still pressed together where they were exposed, even as they started to soften. 

Crowley was content to lie there. That familiar warmth was spreading through his limbs. His angel was pinning him down with his weight, which he might grumble about later. But for right now, it made him feel secure and protected the way nothing else could. 

xxx

He didn’t know how long it was until he opened his eyes. Nothing had changed about the room. The single lamp still illuminated the quiet space, playing shadow games with the furniture. There wasn’t any fear in here now, though. 

Aziraphale’s breath was warm in his ear. Crowley nuzzled against his face, making the angel chuckle at the display of affection. “You seem in good spirits.”

Crowley hummed in agreement. When Aziraphale lifted his head, he kissed those angelic lips the moment he could.

“If that’s how you have your way with me,” Crowley murmured between kisses, “can’t wait to see what else you’ve got planned.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale. “I was thinking, perhaps some cuddling in our pyjamas is in order?”

Crowley took the liberty of snapping his fingers. Their clothes became pyjamas, and the bed’s blankets obediently covered them both. He rolled them on their sides to settle in for some proper cuddling.

(If he noticed how Aziraphale discreetly waved a hand, making sure their drying come was cleaned from them both, he didn’t mention it. They both knew how the feeling of semen drying on his skin could make Crowley squirm sometimes.) 

(But neither of them wanted to breathe life into painful memories by speaking of them now. This was a happy moment, and they would take as many of those as they could get.)

Aziraphale paused their next series of gentle kisses to look at Crowley properly, brushing that stubborn lock of hair from his forehead. “Was that alright? How we ended things?”

Crowley nodded gently. “You did good.” 

Aziraphale looked like he was about to melt from the praise. He had his own wounds to work on, Crowley knew. Just as Crowley knew that, if he had his way, he would keep finding ways to tell Aziraphale _You’re good enough, you’ve always been good enough, you’re the best part of Her Creation,_ for the rest of time.

Aziraphale’s fingers were stroking his face again, tracing his cheekbone and along his jawline. “I only want to help you feel safe,” he said softly. “Safe, and loved.”

Some of the giddiness in Crowley sobered into something deeper. “You’ve been doing that for a long time,” he murmured.

(Even when we were supposed to be on opposite sides.)

(Even on the day we met, and you sheltered me, a stranger working for the Enemy, under your wing.)

(Even when you rejected me, and held me at arm’s length, to keep me safe.)

(Even when they tortured me, I didn’t tell them where you might be hiding, because the memory of your love was all I had to hold onto.)

(Even when they were destroying me, you were loving me.)

From the look on Aziraphale’s face, he’d heard every unspoken word. He cupped Crowley’s cheek in his hand, making him tremble. “And I always will,” he murmured, “as long as you’ll have me.”

Crowley’s smile quivered. “Hope you’re free for eternity, then.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and gathered Crowley in his arms. “As it happens, I believe we _both_ are.”

Crowley let out a long sigh. If there was any tension left in him from today, it obligingly left his body. He felt limber, and sated, and so, so loved.

If someone had told him two years ago that, after enduring the worst tortures Heaven and Hell could offer, he might one day find true happiness and love with his best friend, he probably wouldn’t have believed them. He probably would’ve stared at them blankly, before launching into another trembling panic attack at the mere mention of his captivity.

But now, after two years of working so hard to recover those broken pieces of himself, here he was. Cuddling in his angel’s arms, happier than he could remember feeling in over six thousand years.


End file.
